It's Karma, Baby!
by SophieB
Summary: Malfoy gets a mysterious, invisible visitor in the infirmary. And yes, he's *still* gay. **CHAPTER 4 UPLOADED**
1. And I'm Not Even Getting Paid for This

  
**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.   
  
**A/N:** If I continue this, it's got the potential to become an m/m story. The probability is quite high, actually. Just in case you care, one way or the other. 

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**It's Karma, Baby!**

  


by Sophie B, sophia3b@yahoo.com

  
  


**Chapter 1: And I'm Not Even Getting Paid For This!**

  


"Extra credit, my arse," grumbled the boy under his breath as he stalked down the hall, his hands shoved in his pockets and his shoulders hunched. He might have been taken for some kind of comic book villain if he'd been wearing a trench coat rather than the fine, flowing black robes that graced his lean form. 

"Uncwle Dwaco, you'we gowing too fast!" 

Draco looked down, slowing his pace none, and scowled at the little boy hopping and skipping along beside him. 

"The name's Draco. Not Dwaco. Not Uncle Dwaco. And I'm not going too fast. _You're_ going too slowly. So walk faster," he said snippily. 

"'k," said the kid with a happy (and familiar) smirk on his face. 

Draco sighed. The boy had been doing that since they'd left, imitating him or, rather -- if he were to use Ms. Lake's words -- 'emulating' him. _But really, I don't smirk_ that _much, do I?_ Draco wondered. Who cared. Stupid kid. 

"Uncwle Dwaco, whewe we gowing?" 

The Slytherin's brow dipped, sinking his face deeper into the scowl. He grumbled some choice phrases to himself before glaring down at the boy once more. "I already told you. I'm taking you to the fucking infirmary because you fucking hurt your fucking hand in the greenhouses!" 

"Uncle Dwaco, wha's fuggin' mean?" 

Draco started, appearing somewhat confused for a moment before he regained his cool. 

"It's a very nice word that makes people very, _very_ happy. So be sure to say it as often as possible to any grown-up you meet." 

There, that ought to be punishment enough for the evil parents who deigned to create such a creature as this whose sole purpose in life was to drive one Draco Malfoy absolutely nutters. 

"Rweally? Fuggin, fuggin, fuggin, fuggin," the younger boy sang happily as he bounced along. 

"Add Mudblood to that, kid, and you'll be a big hit." 

"Fuggin, fuggin, mudbwood, fuggin, fuggin, fuggin, mudbwood," he sang loudly. 

Draco smirked with approval. Well, his job here was done. 

"Hmm, kind of catchy too," he sniggered to himself. That would teach those people to mind their prophylactics. Ha. _They'll regret that they ever met._

Draco sniggered some more to himself before quickly tearing the amusement from his face, replacing it now, with a mask of cold apathy. 

He sighed in relief as, at that exact moment, he spotted the infirmary doors up ahead. Draco was quite sure he would have gone a tad psychotic and killed himself or _someone_ -- he threw an evil glance at the little redheaded boy -- if the trip had taken but a few minutes longer. 

He increased his pace. 

The little boy laughed and squirmed about when Draco took the kid's little hand in his own and proceeded to veritably drag him down the hall. In no time at all, they were in the sitting area, awaiting Madame Pomfrey. 

Draco couldn't hold back a devastated groan when the little redhead _insisted_ on climbing up to sit on the older boy's lap, even though -- the Slytherin noted with annoyance -- there were _plenty_ of empty seats around. 

The medi-witch turned up a moment later and smiled down at Draco's charge. 

"Well, who do we have here?" she asked. Her voice made Draco wince. It was much too mushy and honey-tainted to rightly call it actual speech. _Women,_ he despaired, shaking his head in disgust. _Glad I'll never have to deal with that._

He stood, letting the boy slide off his lap onto the floor. 

"David or Damian or something. How the hell am I supposed to know?" Draco snarled at her. The matron glared at him and turned to the boy, crouching down in front of him. 

"What's your name, dear?" 

"Devon," said the child. He moved behind a scowling Draco, clinging to the tall boy's robes, and peeked up shyly at the woman. 

"Well hello Devon, nice to meet you. My name's Madame Pomfrey. But you can call me Poppy if you'd like. What seems to be the problem? Are you hurt?" 

"It's barely a scratch. I don't know why they made me bring him here," grumbled Draco. He looked down at the boy. "Show her your hand." 

Devon lifted his hand to the nurse, and she examined it, carefully turning it over and back. 

"Hmm...I don't see anything," she said, perplexed. 

Draco let out an exasperated breath of air and scowled down at Devon once more. "Your _other_ hand. Are you daft?!" 

"Mr. Malfoy! Please refrain from using that kind of negative language. He's only a child!" huffed the matron, giving the blond a poisoned look. 

Draco merely stared back, coldly. She ignored him and took Devon's other hand, turning it over to find a moderately deep cut across his palm. 

"Well. It's not so bad. Does it hurt, Devon?" 

Little Devon shook his head. He clung to Draco's robes tighter, crinkling the velvety cloth in his small fingers as -- much to Draco's disgust -- a corner of material found its way into his mouth. As he sucked on his new security blanket, the little redheaded boy looked up innocently at the Slytherin, his gaze completely reverent and full of adoration. Draco sighed and looked away. God, he hated kids. 

"If you'd like to _leave_ now, you are _perfectly_ welcome to, Mr. Malfoy," said Madame Pomfrey pointedly. The boy in question frowned. He was already aware of the fact that old hag Pomfrey, the medi-bitch, didn't exactly like him, but was subtlety _completely_ beyond this woman's capabilities? 

Not that it mattered. Draco was _more_ than happy to oblige. He pried Devon's fingers from his robe as he spoke to the matron. "His teacher will be by for him. Good day." And with that curt farewell, he turned to leave. 

"Uncwle Dwaco?" called the little boy in confusion. 

"Uncle Draco has to go back to class now, Devon," explained Madame Pomfrey. "You can see him later. Now let's get that cut fixed up." She gently took his hand and led him into the infirmary proper. 

Draco sighed with relief, a slight smile playing its way across the smooth plain of his lips to tug insistently at the corners of his mouth. 

Letting go of the restraints holding back his amusement, the blond allowed himself a fully matured smirk as the soft lilt of singing -- off key bars of the 'fuggin song' circulating about somewhere in the infirmary -- caught the attention of his ears. Along with the little 'awe you daft's scattered sporadically through the song, it made for a very satisfying experience. 

A few horrified gasps accompanied the sweet melodies and then the shuffle of feet. A reprimanding voice sounded through the walls. Ha. Stupid Pomfrey. _That ought to teach her not to mess with a Malfoy._ Briefly, he turned back around upon hearing Devon call his name. 

"Bye Uncwle Dwaco!" said the kid, escaping Pomfrey's grasp for a moment to run to the door. He waved to Draco, his eyes bright and enthusiastic, a silly sort of grin spanning his face. 

Draco rolled his eyes. "See you, kid," he mumbled without conviction; though he didn't quite manage to prevent a slight smile from quirking his lips into a subtle arch. 

Without further delay, he turned and hurried out of the blasted infirmary. He never did like that place much. And going there for the benefit of some little speech-impaired Weasley clone...what a waste of his god-given precious time! 

What a waste of his time this whole assignment was. "Easy extra credit indeed," he harrumphed as he stalked back down the hall. "Stupid McGonagall." 

He had merely gone to the Transfiguration Professor to ask for some out-of-class work. He didn't _need_ the credit, really; in that particular subject, he had the second highest grade amongst all the seventh years. But second was hardly good enough for a Malfoy. 

Especially when the person who had bested him to claim the top grade was a know-it-all monstrosity. For god's sake, the girl was a fucking _Mudblood._ It was the worst kind of affront to purebloods everywhere. 

So he'd asked. And received. 

That old bag McGonagall gave him _this_ to raise his grade -- this 'assignment'. He always suspected that the Professor was a sadistic bitch. This cinched it. 

Any doubts he might've had concerning this fact were completely dashed now...now that he'd been committed to this hell. She was probably laughing at him, right this very moment. Maybe she'd gathered the rest of the professors to have a 'Malfoy Gets His' party. 

Sounded like just the kind of conspiracy in which this Mudblood-loving staff would partake. Probably trading stories about all the times he'd embarrassed himself in their classes. They were most likely in the staff room right now, having cake, while he was here, _suffering._ Stupid teachers. Stupid McGonagall. 

What in the name of hell did _this_ have to do with Transfiguration anyhow? At any rate, this was not what he had signed up for. It wasn't even worth it -- two or three percentage points to his grade and twenty points to Slytherin House because he'd so generously 'volunteered' for the assignment. Humph, volunteered indeed. Coerced was the more accurate term. 

Thinking he would have to merely complete a research paper, a practical assignment...something of that sort, he'd gone to McGonagall -- on his _own_ time and initiative, mind you -- and sat through a lecture about the benefits of furthering one's education and how happy she was that he was taking his studies so seriously. 

She claimed to have an assignment available, just _perfect_ for him, the devious she-devil. The fact that she was talking to him in such a cheerful tone or even talking to him at all should have been a dead giveaway. 

But he had to admit he'd been thrown a bit by all the flattery, especially since it came from the teacher that loathed him the most! Draco had taken it without even waiting to find out what 'it' was. Admittedly a mistake on his part, but after another five-minute lecture on various methods of learning and study habits, he'd assumed that the extra credit would be something along that vein. 

Then she'd told him to show up the next morning, in the Entrance Hall. She would give him his assignment then. At that time he'd been satisfied with the plan. 

Imagine his surprise when he showed up the next day only to find himself confronted by a horde of little witches and wizardlets. He'd spotted McGonagall talking to another woman, much younger than the crone-ish Professor. _Much prettier too,_ Draco had mused at the time. 

At that moment, McGonagall had spotted him and waved him over. 

"Mr. Malfoy, I would like you to meet Ms. Lake; she is a first form teacher at Murdoch Primary School of Pre-Magic Education. Ms. Lake, Draco Malfoy. Seventh year Slytherin prefect." 

"Hello, please, call me Jane. It's nice to meet you Draco," said the woman, offering her hand to the boy. Draco didn't return her greeting, though, to his credit, he did shake her hand before turning back to his Professor. 

"Oh yes, and that gentleman over there is Mr. Clive Pengree, assistant headmaster at Murdoch Primary." McGonagall waved to a tall blond man across the hall. The young man took a momentary reprieve from the job of corralling the children to wave back and smile. 

Draco gave a polite nod and turned to McGonagall. 

"Professor, you said that you had some extra credit work for me? May I have it now...I have a class to get to." 

"Yes, I forgot to tell you. You will be excused from your morning classes today." 

Draco conveyed his surprise in the slight arch of his eyebrows. 

"You will lead Ms. Lake's class on a tour of the castle and assist with the children. As a prefect you will be allowed entry into all the Houses. On top of that, you will take them to the grounds, the greenhouses, the astronomy tower, and the dungeons. The class is here to learn, so be sure to explain some of the history and theory behind Hogwarts and its magic. 

"You will end the tour in the kitchens; the elves have been instructed to give the children a special treat before they leave for lunch in Hogsmeade. And you will then be free to attend your afternoon classes." 

Draco looked at her blankly. "Wha...?" 

"I expect you to display proper Hogwarts manners. These children and Ms. Lake are our _guests._ As a prefect, you will remember to be responsible and on your best behavior," she said, giving him a pointedly accusing look. "Do you _understand_ Mr. Malfoy?" 

Draco frowned. "_This_ is my extra credit assignment?" 

"Yes. Now you'd best start if you want to keep on schedule." 

"But--," Draco started only to shut his mouth abruptly as McGonagall hurried away and out of hearing range. Thoughts of running after her briefly crossed his mind, but such actions would make him appear foolish in front of all these people. 

Truly, who cared about the opinions of a bunch of kids and their teachers, but Draco stood firm in his belief that one's dignity should not be compromised so. Especially if one was a Malfoy. 

He turned to the woman, Jane. "Well? Are you ready to go?" 

Ms. Lake took note of his short tone and frowned slightly, giving him a pointed look before nodding. 

What was it with everyone giving him pointed looks? He hadn't even done anything wrong, unless being a devilishly handsome bastard was against the rules. 

"Lead the way." She turned towards the other end of the hall where children were scattered all over, bounding about on the floor from stone to stone or examining the scenery with curious eyes. "All right class, please line up with your partner. Hurry now." 

Once the children were reasonably settled into their ranks, Jane smiled and waved a hand towards Draco. "This is Mr. Malfoy. He's going to be leading the tour. Everyone remember what we talked about doing if you were to get lost? You are to stay put and one of us will come find you. Or if you see another adult you may ask them for help. Now, no touching or roughhousing. Indoor voices and visiting behavior. Just like we did in class. Does anyone have any questions before we go? Anyone need to use the bathroom? No? Good. Then, we're off!" 

She smiled cheerfully at Draco and motioned for him to lead the way. "I'll bring up the rear, and Clive can take the middle." 

Draco nodded. 

A realization struck him as he led the group through hallway after hallway, stopping for frequent bathroom breaks, undone shoelaces, and petty squabbles; he would have faced a million angry McGonagalls rather than do this chore. It was pure torture, this. 

Because Draco _hated_ kids. 

The little runts would surround him and put their grubby little claws all over his expensive robes, clinging to him as if he were some kind of magnet. He was the sun to their little galaxy; they spun around him straying not an inch from their arms-length orbits. Little brats...they made him fucking _dizzy_ with annoyance! 

And there it was, the fat of the situation he was currently facing as he resumed his duty and found the group waiting for him in the library corridor. He cringed as what sounded like a million little voices assaulted his ears all at once, calling his name (more often than not mangled on their inexperienced tongues) or throwing random questions his way (all of which he couldn't answer, was too embarrassed to answer, or didn't particularly care to answer). 

All the while he could feel the little monsters tugging at his robes, trying to drag him off somewhere. _Most likely to devour their fresh kill,_ he speculated with a sneer. These things belonged in a zoo. 

Why was it that children always seemed to cling tightest to the people who despised them most? No matter how many growls and glares he threw their way, they still pushed and shoved to be the one who got to hold Draco's hand (though more often than not, he folded his arms over his chest and hid his hands before any one of them could latch on). 

It was making him ill. He felt so impotent. None of his usual tricks were working, and he didn't know what else to do. 

And the teacher, _Jane_...she was another annoyance. She just let the kids do whatever the fucking hell they wanted when it came to Draco's personal space. They could have been gnawing on his bloodied and dying corpse, and she'd have gone about her business, smiling with pride at her students, telling them how clever they were and handing out gold stars. 

Hmph. If _he_ were their teacher, (something that would _never_ happen. Such things were a million fathoms beneath him) he would have sent them all on time-outs in the dungeons by now. Perhaps make them clean out the Slytherin bathrooms, which, he'd noticed, were getting a bit grungy lately. 

But _Jane_ only humored the blasted pests with all her 'sharing feelings' and the little 'fun and educational!' songs she had the kids sing as they went through hall after hall. For god's sake, _Potter_ was less irritating than this. 

And worse, Draco felt a weird compulsion to sing along! The teacher had probably hexed him when his back was turned. Or maybe that 'Clive' bastard. That fellow was awfully quiet...a little _too_ quiet, in Draco's expert opinion. 

Whatever the explanation, the Slytherin felt extremely suicidal (or homicidal) every time the kids or Jane opened their mouths (meaning pretty much _all_ the damn time). Stupid kids. Stupid Jane. 

No wonder the first years had been less than up to par in recent years. He would have rather gotten his entire education from a rock or a shrub, maybe even a house-elf, than to have to suffer public primary. Thank God the Malfoys were wealthy enough that Draco didn't have to leave home for academic instruction, let alone attend a primary school. 

If he were Headmaster at Murdoch's, he would have long ago axed Ms. Lake and hired someone to set her house on fire and later, Avada Kedavra her burned corpse for good measure. 

Jane didn't heed a single one of the pleading looks he threw her way every now and then; even though it was completely obvious that Draco had exactly no experience with children, she ignored him. Ignored _him_, a _Malfoy!_

So what if earlier he had sort of made a pass at her (for which he'd got a scathing reply that had him glaring and flushed for at least ten minutes afterwards), it was no cause to ignore him and abandon him in the midst of these horrible hyperactive beasties. They were worse than a crate full of skrewts! 

It hadn't even been a real line, just something that _sounded_ like one to her obviously deluded and perverted mind. He didn't mean it like _that,_ stupid bitch jumped to conclusions! 

And his blatant flirting directed towards Clive had been less than fruitful. All his advances went completely unnoticed by the elder blond. What was the guy a fucking eunuch? 

Ms. Lake _did_ notice, however, and she gave him a smug smirk. That's right, _him,_ a fucking Malfoy, _the_ original smug bastard! She hadn't the right. 

But he knew what her problem was; it was the same thing that was wrong with most everyone he'd ever met. She was jealous. 

_Let her be,_ Draco seethed. _She fucking deserves to suffer!_ As if some primary school teacher could ever be good enough for someone like Draco Malfoy. She was a slut, anyhow; _all_ primary school teachers were. 

Her loss. He didn't even _like_ girls all that much. 

His vengeful thoughts came to an abrupt halt as -- after another interminable trek to the other side of the castle -- the tour ended in the kitchens. Draco left the children squealing in delight over the sweets and the house-elves that had prepared them. He stalked straight to Slytherin House and the sanctuary of his dormitory. 

"Finally...," sighed the blond, dropping onto his bed on his back. "That," he mused, "was the worst day of my _entire_ life." 

It was worse than losing to Potter at Quidditch for the first time. Worse than that time during third year when Mudblood Granger belted him across the face, the vicious little bitch. 

"Even worse than that day I accidentally locked myself in the broom closet when I was six and had to sit in there crying all day until Father got home from work and came to put his broom away. Worse--" 

He paused to take a quick look around. He didn't want anyone to hear him and think he was crazy for talking to himself. Or thinking aloud, rather. That was a nicer way to put it. 

But for him, the room was completely vacant...good. 

"Worse," he continued loudly, this time with much more enthusiastic disdain, "than the day I heard that Harry Potter was made Head Boy!" He paused to think a moment. "Well, okay, so maybe not worse than _that_," he decided, scowling. But it was close. 

He was absolutely knackered. And now to top it off, he was in one of his 'Stupid Potter' moods. Perhaps, he'd just stay in for the rest of the day. He could tell his Professors he wasn't feeling well. And for once, he wouldn't even have to lie! 

Yes, he definitely needed a break. He sighed and wrapped himself in his covers and his thoughts, settling down for a nice little retreat from his privileged but wholly unfair and considerably shitty life. 

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**E/N:** Next Session, Draco will confront his worst fears and spend some more quality time in that blasted infirmary. I wrote this just for myself, so if it's odd...well, yeah. I know it tends to ramble at times and Draco is being very bratty, but that's just characterisation. Thanks for reading!   
  



	2. Pick 'Em 'Til They Bleed

  
**A/N:** Bit of a filler. Enjoy. Thanks to all the reviewers. Glad you're liking it so far. :)   


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**It's Karma, Baby**

_by Sophie B._

  
  


**Chapter 2: Pick 'Em 'Til They Bleed**

  


After a whole afternoon of being perfectly lazy, Draco went to boys' baths to take a shower and get himself cleaned up all nice and pretty-like. He had a date with Pansy that evening up in the Astronomy Tower. 

"Pansy...," Draco sighed. She was all right and everything, and she gave good head...but there was just something missing. _Like a dick?_

He grimaced. One would think he would have cured himself of this proclivity by now. He'd only spent _three years_ avoiding his instincts and burying his vivid imagination along with its arousing handiwork. 

Or, at least, he'd tried. 

He shook his head, reflecting on the Pansy situation once more. _I'm creative, I can pretend._

Pansy actually did make a rather attractive boy. In his mind's eye, anyhow. 

_Hmm, she's probably a goddamned carpet muncher. Ah well, whatever. Did I mention she gave good head? Like a piston, that girl...._

Draco smiled, his mood now lifted considerably at the thought of what fun awaited him come nightfall. After all, an orgasm was still an orgasm, no matter who brought it about, right? All he had to worry about was afterwards; he had to find a way to escape before she forced him to reciprocate (like the dog she somewhat resembled, she could be quite vicious when provoked...or horny). And he certainly wasn't _that_ creative. 

He scrunched up his nose with distaste as he shook his head and uttered a warning to those little grey cells bouncing around in his brain, _Yes, my little friends, do not go there._

Taking a deep, _cleansing_ breath, he turned his attention back to his escape plan. The best thing was probably to take his wand and petrify her if she tried to come after him. Of course, then he'd have to sneak around the common room, avoiding her for three days or risk getting some valuable bits and pieces hexed off. 

Or he could tell her he just caught oral herpes that morning. Was there such a thing as oral herpes? Oh well, whatever. Pansy wasn't exactly the brightest bitch in the litter; she'd never think to question it. Yes, that was a simpler course of action. Anyhow, if that failed he always had his wand to fall back on.... 

Now through with the planning stages of his tryst, he stepped out of the shower -- clad in his ever trusty Slytherin green, monogrammed towel -- and headed to the sink to brush his teeth. After finally dressing (a sacrilege in his opinion, to cover up this heavenly body), combing his hair to compulsive neatness, and finishing up his other little grooming rituals, he went to give the final product a once over in the old glass. 

He stood in front of the full-length mirror decorating the wall on the far side of the bathroom and admired the trappings of his clean-cut form. Grey eyes grazed over the length of the glass reflecting, to utter lucidity (an anti-fogging charm had been placed on it), his all-consuming perfection. 

He purred with approval and gave himself a wry smirk. As he turned to leave, something briefly caught his eye. Draco did a double-take and froze. Before him, his reflection stared back, with eyes wide and lips parted slightly in shock. 

"No...it can't be," he whispered, quiet horror spreading in the reflection of his visage. 

Raising his arm, a hand, a finger, he cautiously touched the little bump set on his chin. And screamed. Or perhaps 'shrieked' would have been a more appropriate term. 

A pimple. 

_A...a...pimple?!_ He, Draco Malfoy, perfect in _every_ way, NO exceptions..._he_ had a pimple? 

After staring at it for a moment longer, Draco recovered from his state of shock and rushed into his dorm, to his bed. 

He grabbed the silver trimmed hand mirror, which was sitting peaceably on his night table (undoubtedly enjoying its brief respite from work), and brought it up at an angle to his chin. 

He could see it clearly now and up close -- a little, red boil-like structure, slightly itchy and looking ready to burst at any moment like an overheated balloon. A breathy hiss passed between the blonde's dry lips. 

_What do I do, what do I do?!_ He had never, _ever_ had a zit before. Malfoys did not get blemishes. It wasn't in their genes, nor was it within their spectra of tolerance. They did not get pimples. And more to the point, the best looking member of the family -- Draco Malfoy (need you ask?) -- did..._not_...get...ZITS! 

"It's all right," he gasped in an attempt to calm himself. "It will go away. It won't be there tomorrow...." 

Suddenly, he felt quite ill. His brow furrowed deeply, casting his dark grey eyes in shadow. 

Sure, Draco's appearance was very important to him, and he was a narcissistic bastard (though with looks like his, who could blame him?). But really, this was a bit silly, getting sick over a stupid pimple. 

He tried once more to pull himself together, attempting to ward off hyperventilation by taking deep, guttural breaths. But that queer ache in his stomach remained. He gagged as he felt the acid rise at the back of his throat. 

"All right, so no blowjobs tonight...," he whimpered, holding his stomach as he laid down on top of his forest green duvet. 

He must have had a fever; he was quite rapidly developing chills, and he was beginning to sweat -- another thing Malfoys did _not_ do. 

_Two in one day...hmm. Maybe I should go see Madame Pomfrey. Think I might actually be sick._

He groaned as he slipped out of bed and hurried to the bathroom. He grabbed a stall and promptly lost his breakfast (fortunately, he had been too lazy to bother with lunch). Deal breaker. He _was_ sick. 

He had been sick plenty in the past, but each of those instances basically boiled down to an odd sleep-deprived, motion-sickness, otherwise known as ditching. But seriously ill? No. It was time to go. He picked himself up off the bathroom floor with some difficulty and exited his stall. And headed straight for the infirmary. 

Once he finally reached the facility's sitting room, the wait was negligible. Madame Pomfrey had just finished with a third year whose arm was covered in bubotuber puss lacerations. 

Draco grinned mockingly at the injured kid as he walked by. _Wouldn't want to be that poor, pathetic son of a bitch,_ he thought with a short laugh. This only served to make his stomach rumble menacingly. 

Madame Pomfrey narrowed her eyes as soon she spotted him. Draco tried to narrow his eyes back, but they only fell completely shut as he winced, his stomach churning once more. 

"Can I help you with something Mr. Malfoy?" 

Draco scowled at her. "Yes! This is the bleeding infirmary isn't it?! You're supposed to help me...," he trailed off miserably as a chill ran up his spine. "Uhhgh...I'm going to die." 

"Mr. Malfoy, if you would _calm down_...I'm sure it's nothing all _that_ serious. I will examine you and give you a diagnosis. I'm sure it's just the flu or one of the other bugs that are going around." 

Draco growled. "I feel like shit, I'm going to die in three minutes. Just give me something to fix it, dammit!" 

"Well! I must warn you again, Mr. Malfoy; I do not tolerate that kind of language here. You are ill, so I will overlook this one instance, but do it again, and I promise you'll be recovering on your own, _without_ magical intervention." 

"Just...oh, fuck--" 

Madame Pomfrey watched as the boy's eyes rolled up towards the ceiling, and his legs went limp, causing him to collapse into a rumpled heap on the ground. 

When Draco regained consciousness, he found himself in a bed. An infirmary bed with infirmary white sheets tucked in around his infirmary robe clad body. Madame Pomfrey must have put him to bed and changed him while he had been out. Draco shuddered. He halted his thought process for a moment and sat up. Blinking tiredly, he took a look around. 

"Oh, good. You're up." 

Draco turned his attention towards the office at the other end of the infirmary and saw Madame Pomfrey heading his way, carrying a tray, on which sat a nice big goblet full of some unknown steaming substance. 

She put the tray down on the table next to Draco's bed and looked down at him with her hands on her hips. "You've been out for nearly twenty minutes. What I want to know is what you did to yourself that you should faint like that. Because your illness is, as I said before, not all that serious. I know for a fact you are not particularly vulnerable to fainting spells." 

He shrugged. "Well...I didn't have any lunch. And I threw up before I got here. And I've got a fever. I think I have a right to pass out if I like. I'm practically on my death bed!" 

Madame Pomfrey let out an exasperated gasp. "Well! No wonder. A boy your age shouldn't be skipping meals. Especially when you're _ill._" 

"Oh, I'm _sorry._ Getting sick really wasn't on my itinerary today. It was sort of a last minute thing, and I had _absolutely_ no time to plan; my, how embarrassing!" 

"You might wish to watch your back-talk Mr. Malfoy. We'll be spending a lot of time together." 

Draco's eyes widened. "What? Why, what's wrong with me? I'm really dying? But you said I wasn't!" 

"You're not dying!" she groaned for the millionth time. "What you have contracted is a highly contagious virus which requires a stint of quarantine. And that is all." 

The cold look in Draco's eyes was enough to tell Madame Pomfrey how he felt about _that_ idea. But he decided to voice it anyway. "You can't quarantine me as if I were some kind of rabid Hippogriff! This is outrageous, you don't even know what you're talking about! You're doing it on purpose! You just want to make me _suffer._ When I tell my father about this treatment--" 

"Draco, _please,_ that is the most ridiculous list of accusations I have ever heard. I am not trying to punish you or torture you," she interrupted in a calm voice. "You need only stay here for a week or two. Your condition is quite serious, though not fatal." 

Draco's brow dipped with worry. "What is my 'condition' exactly?" 

"You have contracted _Varicella zoster,_ or in layman's terms...a simple case of chicken pox." 

"Huh?" queried Draco, shaking his head in confusion. "I haven't been near any goddamned poultry to catch that. Whatever _that_ is. What kind of plebian country bumkin do you take me for? Chicken pogs, indeed!" 

The matron sighed. She was obviously a very patient woman, too patient for her own good. Draco meant to give her hell, the bitch, diagnosing him with all kinds of weird tropical diseases that no one had ever heard of. Fuck, she probably made that particular one up herself. 

"It's chicken P-O-X. And it really has nothing to do with chickens. It is a highly contagious virus, almost unknown in the wizarding world but quite common amongst the muggle populations. How _you_ caught it, I haven't the slightest," she paused to examine the blank, pasty look on the boy's face. "Have you been to a hospital lately?" 

Draco shook his head. 

"Have you been near anyone with similar symptoms?" 

"No," he replied flatly. 

"Well, it only spreads through direct contact, bodily fluids, and aerosol when in close proximity." She paused once more staring at him intently. Draco chastised himself for squirming slightly under her gaze. She was nothing compared to him, he reminded himself. Put her in her place. 

But then he noticed the quiver of her lips as she attempted to contain an obvious smile. Draco glared at her. No one laughs at a Malfoy's misfortune and gets away with it. Goddamnit, what the hell was so funny? 

"Well, the other common way to catch it...," she paused for dramatic effect, "You wouldn't happen to have been in contact with any young _children_ lately have you?" The smirk broke free on her lips. 

Draco's eyes went wide, and his jaw dropped. _Children?_

"Please answer the question Mr. Malfoy. We _must_ determine where you contracted this unfortunate malady." 

Oh, she was going to get it. With a fucking smile on her face...she questioned him while grinning like the idiot she was. She thought it was _funny,_ did she? She would regret it by the end of the week, Draco promised himself. 

Instead of answering her taunting question, Draco narrowed his eyes and leveled a question of his own. "You said wizards don't get it. Those kids were from wizarding families. How is it that I caught this thing from people who allegedly don't have it?" 

"I didn't say it wasn't possible. I said it was rare. Most muggle children get it when they're young, and only recently has it begun to affect our own youth. 

Draco's eyes narrowed a smidgen more. 

Muggles were spreading their diseases around the wizarding population, and people had the gall to call _him_ a _bigot_ for disapproving? It was a matter of _safety._

_We should burn them all,_ he decided. Or at least the ones going around spreading chicken pox. That was logical. Stupid muggle-loving politicians; always going on about muggles' harmless, _gentle_ natures. Talking them up as creatures that deserved the wizarding world's _protection_ and _cooperation._ Just because muggle-loving happened to be _en vogue_ at the moment. The nation's safety wasn't a popularity contest! The _Malfoys_ would never give in to such petty political pressures; The Malfoys were _real_ wizards. 

Fucking traitors. Pitying Mudbloods and muggles while _he,_ a pureblood, was ill with a deadly muggle disease. Muggle Protection indeed! Some people had no sense of pride. Bastards. 

"Do you mean to tell me that those little shits gave this to me?!" Draco raged at last. 

"_Language,_ Mr. Malfoy!" 

Draco glared at the nurse. "Well don't just stand there. Cure me already!" he snapped impatiently. 

Madame Pomfrey frowned. "It's not quite that simple. There is no magical cure for it." 

"WHAT?!" 

The matron put her hands on the hyperventilating boy's shoulders and shook him hard. "Calm down Malfoy! Breath for god's sake! You're going to be fine!" 

Draco took another moment or two to right himself before resuming his glaring. "Well?" he asked shortly, still panting from his episode of panic. 

"There is no quick cure. I can treat the symptoms, but you will still require the one to two weeks in quarantine. Other than that, all we can do is let the virus run its course." 

Draco sat, blinking blankly. That was it then. He'd be staying in the infirmary for the next two weeks of his privileged, though growing shittier by the second, life. He sighed and scratched his chin, sinking into deep thought. 

"NO!" 

The blond started and reeled back, his petulant speculations on missing the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend flitting away to be consumed in the cloud of confusion that permeated his head. 

"Don't scratch. That's one thing you should not do," said Madame Pomfrey. 

"Huh?" said Draco, looking, for once, meek and unassuming. He touched his chin self-consciously, his fingers feathering over the small bump. 

"It will only scar if you pop it. You'll only make it worse." 

"My zit?" Draco asked, squinting his eyes in puzzlement as he tried in vain to look down at his chin. "You mean this is part of this 'chicken pox?'" 

A sly smile lit the nurse's face as she gazed with amusement at her patient. "Yes. Yes, it is." 

"Oh." Draco frowned. "Erm...what are the other symptoms?" he asked. Though he didn't really want to know. 

The bump on his chin was bad enough. But things could always get worse. That was one thing he'd learned during his time at Hogwarts. And today was turning into an exquisite case in point. Next, he'd be sprouting unsightly spare appendages and growing purple hair out of his ears or something equally ridiculous. 

Draco's reluctance to confront his illness seemed to amuse the nurse, for she let out a cheery laugh. "It's not so bad. It's just like having the flu. Fever, fatigue, neusea. I can give you potions for all of those. But we don't want you spreading it, so you'll stay here in the infirmary for as long as it takes you to get better." 

"All this over a bloody _pimple?!_" 

The nurse laughed again. _Well, _this_ is getting old,_ Draco mused, folding his arms over his chest with indignation. 

"_Chicken Pox,_ Mr. Malfoy. You'll have your homework for the week brought to you. Or if you feel it would be less stressful and in turn more inducive to a speedy recovery, you may go home as well--" 

"No!" 

The matron raised an eyebrow at the boy, causing a slight blush to tinge his cheeks. 

"I mean, that won't be necessary." No, not necessary. But detrimental to his health, yes most likely. Less stressful _indeed._ What would his father say when he found out his son had a _muggle_ disease? What would that _imply?_

_Like hell I'm going home. No, the infirmary is good enough for me._ He shook his head and added outloud in a threatening tone, "You can't tell anybody...not _anybody_...even my parents, understand?" 

"If that's what you'd like. It's really not serious enough to require me to contact your family." 

Draco gave her a single nod and slumped in his bed. Now he could relax. A whole two weeks to do nothing. That wouldn't be so bad. 

"Now, drink that potion," Madame Pomfrey nodded towards the goblet sitting on his nighttable. "It should put you out until evening, in time for dinner. Then we can get some nourishment into you. Right now you should rest." 

Draco nodded curtly, shooting murderous looks at the steaming potion. 

"Good." And with that final word, the woman turned and headed back to her office. 

Draco sighed, pulling the covers up around him. Chicken Pox. Whoever heard of such a thing. It sounded like some kind of curse, 'a pox on your poultry!' But then Madame Pomfrey did tell him that it had nothing to do with chickens at all. 

How confusing it all was. He sighed once more and picked up his mirror from the side table. The silver handle rested in his left hand with a familiar weightiness while the cool metal shine of the mirror's face comforted him. A feeling of calm descended over his bedridden form. At least he'd had the presence of mind, even in his haste, to slip the darn thing into his pocket before leaving the dormitory. 

Suffering through a week without his mirror would have proved quite stressful and setback his already diminished health, he was sure. It was not something he was prepared to live without, this mirror. Thank the heavens above, his memory allowed him that bit of lucidity while he was hurling into a porcelain bowl -- but then, how could he ever forget something so important? 

Draco settled himself back into the pillows he'd pulled up against the headboards for back support and raised the mirror to his face. The pimple or chicken pox -- whatever Pomfrey had said -- was unfortunately still visible, sitting on his chin and destroying the homogenic smoothness of his skin. 

Stupid thing. He touched it, bringing his free hand to his face and running his index finger along the line of his jaw all the way to his damaged chin. 

If the little bastard scarred, someone somewhere was going to pay; of that much, Draco was certain. He'd get McGonagall, Ms. Lake, Madame Pomfrey, and, if possible, Dumbledore fired. Maybe that Clive fellow too, stupid oblivious ponce. They would _all_ pay dearly for their sins against the Malfoy name. 

Draco squirmed restlessly in the uncomfortable hospital bed. Formerly, whenever Draco got up the will to tell his father that the whole planet was out to get him, Lucius Malfoy always brushed his ranting off as paranoia. 

_Well, let the old man call me paranoid now! He'll be sorry when I die of this. Stupid Father. I'm no fucking schizoid!_

Draco harrumphed and glared at his reflection in the silver glass. His left eye twitched before going comically wide right along with the other one. 

After a moment's pause, he opened his mouth. And let out a reverberating shriek. 

The mirror dropped from his hands and broke into a gazillion pieces on the floor just as Madame Pomfrey came running. 

"What is it? What's happened?" she asked, stately concern lining her tone. 

Draco looked up at her with wide, unusually bright eyes. He opened his mouth but shut it again promptly. He tried again, his jaw working soundlessly for a moment before he finally managed to vocalize his concerns. 

"T-there's...there's ANOTHER one!" Draco cried, looking for all the world like a frightened lab mouse that had just discovered an ear growing out of its back. 

"There's another _what,_ Mr. Malfoy?" asked the nurse. 

"Another..._thing_ on my face...the PIMPLE!" 

Madame Pomfrey rolled her eyes. "All right then, let's have a look." 

Draco didn't like the bothered tone of her voice -- she spoke as if she saw him as some kind of _burden_ -- but refrained from saying a word as she stepped forward and took his face into her hands. 

She tilted his chin up and looked around in the vicinity of the little malignant monsters. "Is that what's got you all worked up?" the matron asked in an amused tone. 

She stepped back and smiled at him. 

"WELL?!" said Draco. 

"It's really nothing to be worried about. It's just the chicken pox. Boils are a prevalent symptom." 

"What?" Draco asked with a shake of his head. 

Pomfrey laughed and answered in an even more cheerful voice, "As a matter of fact, by tonight they should cover you all over." 

"My whole body?!" Draco said, his tone thin and trembling. 

The nurse nodded. 

"This is so unfair," Draco murmured, folding his arms tightly over his chest and sulking. 

Madame Pomfrey sighed and shook her head. "Well at least you've accepted it. As for fairness...I'm afraid viruses are equal opportunity agents." 

Draco merely half grunted-half huffed and resumed staring angrily straight ahead at the invisible particles of air that had undoubtedly played an insidious role in this deprivation. 

"Take the potion and get some sleep. You'll feel better by dinner," said Madame Pomfrey kindly before taking her leave once more. 

Draco grasped the goblet in his hands and glared at it a moment before downing the whole thing in one go. He hacked and fell back against the sheets. In no time at all he drifted off into a deep sleep, dreams of Giant Child-Eating Chickens and broken mirrors dancing their way across the ethereal plane of his mind. 

  


*******

  


Indeed, by dinnertime, Draco awoke to find himself veritably covered in itchy little bumps. Remaining surprisingly calm, he proceeded to crawl out of bed and walk to the bathroom. 

Unfortunately the large full-length mirror contained within was just too much for him and he shrieked again. 

Predictably Madame Pomfrey came running and gave him a lecture on 'crying wolf' before ordering him back to bed. The blond was so utterly stupefied by his spotty appearance that he didn't even glare as he complied. 

"Dinner hasn't started yet, but it will soon. Since you're already awake, a plate will be brought in for you. I would keep you company, but I have work to do." 

Draco nodded blankly. 

A few minutes after the matron left, a house-elf brought in a plate of food. 

"Soup? That's all I get?" Draco said, eying the rich brown broth in a bowl sitting on the plate that was garnished with a few vegetables. 

The house-elf shrugged and popped out of sight. 

Grudgingly Draco picked up a spoon and finished off his meager dinner. He felt slightly better with the warm liquid in his stomach. Slightly dozy. 

"Bitch probably laced it with sleeping potion," grumbled Draco to himself. 

He placed the bowl on the table and swung his legs over the side of the bed to the floor. After a moment's pause to compose himself and regain his courage, he stood and treaded over to the bathroom once more. 

The mirror was huge and mocking on the wall. He avoided its perverse gaze, sidling past sideways with his back to its reflective surface. 

He reached the safety of the first stall and relieved himself. Once more dragging up his virtually nonexistent courage, he stepped out and faced his fears. 

The shriek got lost somewhere in the back of his throat as he looked at his reflection, grimacing. 

Madame Pomfrey wasn't shitting him; they really were _all over._ Little red bumps, boils. Draco stepped up close to the mirror and began to strip, which didn't take long considering all he was wearing was an infirmary robe and his boxers. 

He pirouetted around, twisting at all odd angles to get a good look at the damage. 

It was bad. Everywhere. Draco took a deep breath. There was nothing he could do, so why get upset. At least it wasn't permanent. 

Was it? 

His eyes went wide just as Madame Pomfrey walked in. She clicked her tongue at him as he scurried to cover himself up, blushing bright red all the while. 

Once he was fully clothed, he turned to the matron. "This...this isn't permanent, is it?" 

Madame Pomfrey shook her head. "They'll go away. Though if you pop them and make them bleed, they may scar. So _no_ scratching." 

Draco's brow furrowed, and suddenly he felt itchy over his entire body. _Damn her, I'd forgot that they were so bothersome. Just had to bring it up didn't she._

"Now Mr. Malfoy, back to bed. It's getting late. I left some more sleeping potion on the table if you need it." 

Draco nodded before wordlessly padding out of the room and back to bed. 

  
  


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**Next Chapter:** Draco gets a special midnight visitor. And finds a new way to torture his enemies. And for anyone who was wondering, this will most likely end up as a Ron and Draco story. Thanks for reading!   
  



	3. Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This

  
**A/N:** Self-indulgence. Completely. I apologize for my wordiness. Should I apologise? I'll apologise. Sorry I took my sweet time updating. I'd say it won't ever happen again, but I'd be lying.   


* * *

  


**It's Karma, Baby!**

_by Sophie B._

  
  


**Chapter 3: Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This**

  


"Hey, did you guys hear what happened to Draco Malfoy! It's just horrible!" 

The Trio of friends turned their attention to Lavender who was sitting a few seats down the table. 

"What happened?" asked Hermione Granger, raising a skeptical eyebrow in the other girl's direction. Lavender was not the most reliable source of information at the school, a truth more pronounced when the gossip in question concerned the less-than-dynamic Slytherins. 

The infamous house was composed of a piss-about squad of ne'er-do-wells, true. But even _their_ exploits were hardly ever gossip worthy. With greater likelihood, the case concerned more of the same -- this Slytherin insulted a student, that Slytherin beat up this or that first year, another Slytherin stole that week's test key from Professor Snape's study, and the like. It hardly warranted more than a raised eyebrow from anyone above third year. 

Despite Hogwarts' universal reputation as one of the most magically charged locations on the planet, seven eighths of the time the school was not the most enthralling of places. It could be quite boring as a matter of fact. Which made for a rather creative rumour mill that could twist even the most benign of incidents into worse-than-death. 

Though, what the Hogwarts grapevine lacked in accuracy, it made up for in efficiency. A newly hatched rumour would spread through the entire school faster than an itch through a whorehouse (and frequently was just as irritating). 

Taking all of this into account, Hermione was wholly justified in doubting a chatterbox of a girl such as Lavender. 

Lavander's information almost always came from one of her friends. And one could only find himself reluctant to take at face value anything that Lavender said, considering just who her friends were -- Parvati Patil and Pansy Parkinson amongst others. The former was a chatty little thing with friends in troves all over the school and a high grudge of one sort or another against half of them. The latter, Pansy Parkinson, single-handedly embodied the whole of the Slytherin rumour mill. There was Millicent and the rest of the other Slytherin girls of course, but they were unavoidably drowned out and pushed aside by Pansy's excess of personality, and kept mainly to themselves. 

But _Pansy_ -- any stray bit of information that happened by manifested itself in the swoony, ruffled, giggling lump of femininity that was Pansy Parkinson. She could gob off with such efficiency of senseless rabble as to give even the most talkative of jarvies an inferiority complex. 

Both Lavender and Parvati looked up to this girl as if she were an omniscient goddess of some sort (much the same as they viewed their favourite teacher, Sybill Trelawny, a 'Professional' Seer). These facts were common knowledge to all, or at least everyone with any small bit of sense. 

This day was no different than previous days, so naturally Lavender's sudden proclamation of Draco Malfoy's misfortune was little heeded by any of the dinner crowd seated at the Gryffindor table. If previous experience was anything to judge by, the rumour was false anyhow. 

Only 'The Dream Team', as they had come to be known by, had anything more than a passing interest in the wheeling and dealing of Draco Malfoy, and even that was purely precautionary; whenever Malfoy got up to something, it usually ended up involving them in one convoluted way or another. 

Perhaps if the topic had come up during lunch or History of Magic, when heads were throbbing with midday mundanity, people would have found it of interest. Or if the crowd were compiled of the lower years instead of a group of seventh years who had heard it all before two million times by now, backwards and forwards. But dinner was a time to relax and look forward to bed. Especially so late in the school year when minds were tense, and workloads were grossly enlarged worse than an 80 year old man's prostate and certainly as uncomfortable. 

Certainly, Ron Weasley was feeling the crunch. And whatever trivial thing Lavender had to say about Draco Malfoy was hardly of any significant interest to the apathetic redhead. He sighed and, despite himself, listened as Lavender excitedly explained the pertinent details of this most recent newsflash. 

"Draco's in the infirmary! He broke something like fifteen bones and is nearly on his deathbed! It's horrible. He's in a coma and everything!" 

Ron snorted and looked to Hermione who looked to the third and arguably most notable member of their trio, Harry Potter. 

Harry shrugged and said: "Wait, Lavender, what do you mean he's nearly on his deathbed? What happened to him?" 

All along the dinner table, a few more eyes rose in attention. After all, if Harry Potter was interested, surely the state of the situation was something worth knowing. He was considered what amounted to a village elder in the peaceful province of Gryffindor House. When Harry spoke, people listened, whether or not what they heard was utter shit-faced rubbish. 

Ron was accustomed to other people's reactions to Harry, and once, he too would have snapped to attention along with the rest of the flock. Actually that was a lie. Only three things existed in the world that could snap Ron to attention -- dinner, spiders, The Cannons, and Draco Malfoy. So that was four things; Draco didn't exactly count anymore did he, now that these days Ron had better grip of his temper. Stupid pale faced ferret. But that wasn't the point. The point was...he scratched his chin a moment. Oh yes, the point was he'd come to know Harry for the normality that he embodied. A normal boy shoved into an abnormal life -- yes, that was Harry all right. So Ron could take comfort in that knowledge and treat Harry like he treated Hermione -- that is, with high doses of apathy and skepticism and not only a bit of contrariness. 

As Ron poked at his peas, trying to stab them with the corner tong of his fork as they rolled inconveniently from under his precise attempts, he listened with only half an ear as Lavender squealed with much delight. 

"Well...what _I_ heard was that he was found trying to sneak some kind of DARK ARTS things into the school and got cursed terribly when he tried to RUN from the AURORS that Dumbledore sent after him!" 

"Funny," Ron snorted, "I haven't seen any Aurors running around the school. Are you sure you aren't mistaking this with the time Malfoy was breeding Manticores in his bedroom? Or that other time when he was growing giant elicit mushrooms in the dungeons? Even better, how about when Malfoy and Harry were supposedly dating?" 

Harry blushed as did Lavender. "It was possible!" she said. "I can't help it if Pansy misheard a few conversations!" 

Ron rolled his eyes and turned back to his peas, which were by now thoroughly embedded, like so many rounds of birdshot, throughout his battle weary meat loaf. 

"ANYWAY," Lavender continued indignantly, "he only has something like days left. Professor Snape is keeping vigil at his bedside, and he's already willed all his personal possessions to Pansy!" 

"Lavander, Professor Snape is sitting next to Dumbledore, eating like a bird and scowling at Harry as usual," Ron informed her politely. Harry nodded in confirmation. 

"Oh. Well...yes, so he is. But Ron, what is your problem? You aren't being very pleasant, you know!" she said with her hands placed sternly on her hips. 

"And you are? Bringing up Malfoy while I'm trying to enjoy my dinner? And _that_'s what you call pleasant?" 

"He's just tired and doesn't want to be bothered with tales about that git Malfoy. See, you're ruining his dinner, love! Isn't that right, mate?" said Seamus Finnegan from next to his girlfriend, giving Ron an empathetic grin. 

"He's not even eating! He's just playing with his peas!" Lavender said in her defense, giving Seamus an off putting glare. 

"Why aren't you eating, Ron?" Hermione asked. She glanced over his plate full of food and did a curious scrunchy eyebrow thing that she was prone to using an awful lot, especially when it came to her two best friends. 

"I'm just tired. I don't even feel like eating. I still have to revise for that Transfiguration test," said Ron. 

"Nerves? Me too," said Harry. 

Ron nodded. "She said it's going to be our most important grade next to the N.E.W.Ts. You oughtn't feel nervous Harry, you _are_ Head Boy afterall. But me...?" 

"But _I_, Ron," corrected Hermione, "and if you'd started studying earlier -- you knew about it four weeks in ad--" 

"Stop right there Hermione!" said Ron, cradling his head in his hands. "I realize I am a terrible student. That's not the point! What am I supposed to do about tomorrow?!" 

"Oh, you could ask Malfoy!" said Lavender. 

Ron removed his head from his hands and looked up at the girl. "Oh? And why would I ask Malfoy for anything, let alone help on a transfiguration exam? He's already as good as lost me my appetite." 

Lavander frowned. "Well...he's got the test form. He stole it this morning." 

"But I thought you said he was dueling Aurors this morning. That boy sure does get around, doesn't he?" said Ron. 

"Oh. Yeah. Well...." 

"She was wrong," said Parvati, seating herself on the other side of Lavender at just that moment. 

"Where have you been?" asked Lavander. 

"Over at the Ravenclaw table. Padma is going to set me up with _Terry Boot_!" 

Both girls proceeded to squeal with frightening synchronicity. Ron rolled his eyes. 

"What were you saying about Lavender being wrong, Parvati?" asked Hermione, ignoring the whole display. 

"Oh! Yes! Draco wasn't fighting Aurors; he broke into McGonagall's office and stole her test form last night. Pansy told me, and she was with him so she would know!" 

"So he's not in the infirmary?" asked Seamus. 

"Oh, no! He's in the infirmary all right. Pansy told me that...er, well, that he sort of hurt himself when he was with her last night...." 

"Oh," said Ron, speaking for the rest of the proximal table. This was one story he really did not want to hear in more detail. Yawning, he rose from his seat. "I can't stay here anymore...I'm off to study!" 

"Oh, good for you, Ron!" said Hermione with a delighted smile. 

"Yes. Later, all." 

He turned to leave the hall; no more rumours, chitchat or nagging for him. He allowed himself a glance at the Slytherin table, drawing his eyes straight to the far end of the table and to the empty place in between Crabbe and Goyle, which Malfoy usually occupied. He shrugged and continued on his merry way, grateful for the excuse to escape as Lavender and Parvati's voices, spewing more gossip, faded into the silence of the corridors and finally the common room. 

With a sigh, Ron collapsed on the couch in front of a roaring fire in the hearth. He pulled out his transfiguration book from the bag he'd left on the couch earlier and set it on his lap. He opened it to the second page. And in minutes, he'd dozed off. 

A ruckus at the portrait and a barrage of footsteps woke Ron less than half an hour later. He sat up on the couch and stretched, the movement knocking the revision text from his lap. Paying the evil book no mind, Ron twisted around and looked toward the group of Gryffindors returning from dinner. He brightened as he spotted Harry and Hermione at the back of the pack. Perhaps Hermione would take pity on him and give him one of her last minute tutoring sessions. It was better than nothing. And now that he'd had a nice nap he felt slightly rested and ready to face the task. Kinda. 

He waved them over, and they made their way to the couch, taking a seat on either side of him. 

"Hey, Ron! Feeling better?" asked Harry. 

Ron shrugged. "Yeah." 

He opened his mouth to propose a bit of night-before cramming, but before he could start pleading with the girl for help, Hermione launched into a description of her own plans for the night. Or rather *their* plans for the night. If the boys knew what was good for them. 

"So, Ron, Lavender was telling us more about Malfoy, and it sounds suspicious. No one seems to know what happened to him. You should have heard some of the other theories the girls kept throwing at us. Not even Pansy Parkinson seems to know what's going on with him. And some of the other students are starting to talk about it as well." 

Ron raised an eyebrow at the girl and turned to Harry. "Do you think it has something to do with 'Ya-Know-Who?'" 

Harry shrugged. "My scar hasn't been burning especially bad lately. And no dreams. I'm not sure. Hermione thinks it might not be anything to do directly with Voldemort, but maybe Malfoy's up to something. Who knows how he got himself into the infirmary...no one's heard anything. We even went to Hagrid and the Infirmary itself...Madame Pomfrey told us to mind our business...afterhours, you know how she can be. She wouldn't even confirm or deny that Malfoy was there. Just told us to clear off. That in itself is kind of suspicious. I suppose?" Harry looked to Hermione for confirmation, and the girl nodded her approval. 

Ron looked to the ceiling with a sigh. "So what, are we gonna go to Dumbledore?" 

Harry shook his head. Hermione bit her lip a moment before answering. 

"I don't think it's important enough to bother the Headmaster. Besides we don't have anything to report yet! I thought perhaps we could go see for ourselves if he's really there in the infirmary. Then we'll at least know he's safely put up, and not out putting whatever sordid plots he has into action." 

Ron groaned. "Why don't we just wait until tomorrow? He's probably just got a cold or ran into a door or something, stupid prat. He'll be back tomorrow. I'm dead tired. And I haven't any time to even read for class let alone go after Malfoy." 

Hermione shook her head. "It's all very suspicious, Ron. We really should check it out. Everything we've heard...even the other houses are starting to talk about it. And Madame Pomfrey isn't telling anybody anything. We should figure out what's going on. It might be important! With everything that's been happening...." 

"Uuurgh," was all Ron managed for a moment. 

Tromping around the castle in the middle of the night wasn't an especially unpleasant activity, but he'd done it about a million times before. It got old. And he was shit tired. Was that such a difficult concept to grasp? Of course it would be for Hermione. 'She Who Never Sleeps,' thought Ron. Not when there was mind-numbing research to be done and ill evil prats to investigate. That girl had to have had a spare cell on her somewhere with the kind of energy she possessed. She could go on for hours like one of those robod things they'd learned about in Muggle Studies. It would have been nice if they could just unplug her like they did with annoying muggle appliances. "Is there no way you two could do this yourselves? I have revising to do!" said Ron. 

"Oh come off it, Ron! You know you aren't _really_ about to do anything. You'll just putter around for a bit and fall asleep. You could at least come with us and do something productive instead," she said. 

"You know Hermione, I liked you a lot better when you were an insufferable nag about school work," Ron muttered, earning a nice easy glare. He snorted internally. He had even planned to actually study this time...for a little while anyway. Probably. Maybe. Hermione was so quick to judgement. But then of course, her judgements were usually just. Ron offered her a negotiating stare. 

Hermione didn't seem to notice as she grabbed his arm and dragged him up off the couch and directed him up to fetch Harry's invisibility cloak. 

Ron rubbed his temples as he clomped up the spiral stone staircase to Harry's room. Always, it was off of the seventh year boys' dormitory of whichever house the Headboy was a member of, specially reserved for the lucky student. Percy had stayed in this particular room. Bill too, Ron would imagine. He let his thoughts stray until he remembered what he'd come for. 

"Golder Snidget," he said to the portrait blocking his path. 

"Ah, Mister Weasley. How nice to see you," said the portrait of one Godric Gryffindor. 

"Hullo Godric. Get out of my way," said Ron. 

"Is something the matter? You seem frightfully tense. Perhaps a backrub?" 

Ron sighed. "Test tomorrow, move aside, Hermione is waiting down in the common room. Besides, paintings can't give backrubs." 

"Perhaps if you call Harry, he's a decent fellow...a proper Gryffindor. I'm sure he's brilliant at backrubs. Very good wand hand on that boy, and I'd know--" 

"Open up!" said Ron, trying to avoid thoughts of how nice a good backrub would be right at the moment. 

Godric shrugged and swung his portrait open, revealing beyond the hole in the wall a generous sized bedroom. Ron stepped through the portrait hole and into the lush surroundings of redvelvet and satin. Curtains and pointless screens decorated all the walls, leaving only the occasional bare spot of stone amongst the crimson dressings. 

He eyed his friend's well made-bed longingly. Cool satin sheets. Goose down pillows. He could just collapse on that queen-sized mattress and bury himself in the red down duvet. Such a nice bed. Harry was lucky. So big and comfortable and versatile...perfect for Ron...and maybe later he could invite... 

"Aaargh!" he cried, throwing open Harry's trunk, which sat at the foot of his bed. Now, not only was he tired, but he was distracted as well! Not a good combination -- hormones and exhaustion -- a potent mixture that ultimately resulted in complete frustration and irritation. Ron was in a _mood_ to put it lightly. Stupid Godric. Stupid Hermione. Stupid Harry. Stupid.... 

"And where's the damn cloak then?!" Ron yelled at the trunk. "Damnit, Harry!" 

That boy was such a slob! Ah, there it was...under the bed. What kind of unappreciative prat would throw a priceless invisibility cloak on the floor? In the dust? 

"Oh yeah, me," he said, recalling yesterday's midnight excursion to acquire food from the kitchens. Ron got on all fours and dug the cloak out from under the low bedframe. He stood and shook the dust from it, growling to himself. It was always he who had to do the dirty work, wasn't it. Hermione, or dare he think it, _Harry_ couldn't have got the damned cloak? 

And Ron didn't even want to go! It was Hermione's idea, why couldn't she get her own cloak. He rolled his eyes at his own pissiness. Today just wasn't Ron's day. 

"I need to get laid...." he shook his head, letting out a deep breath. 

"Brilliantly," said Godric, earning a half-hearted scowl from Ron as he stepped out of the room, cloak in hand. 

"Yeah, yeah. Stop pestering me," he said. 

"He's just downstairs," the portrait called after him. 

"You're not supposed to be encouraging this, you're virtually part of the staff. Fuck that...you're one of the _Founders_," said Ron. "Besides, you're only saying that 'cause you wanna watch. Bloody antiquated pervert." He turned away, continuing on down the corridor. 

"Well! I've never seen such poor manners in my life," said Godric. 

Ron shook his head, ignoring Godric's glare and turned onto the staircase landing. Now back to the others. Hermione was probably going to yell at him for taking so long. 

Merlin curse whoever's idea it was to let Hermione be such a know-it-all. The girl had studied all that she possibly could. Now she had nothing to do but hassle Ron and think up pointless excursions such as this one. Poor girl, she must have been going crazy looking for things to keep herself properly occupied and stimulated. 

"Hmph. Her and her projects. Yes, please Hermione, make my life more difficult just to amuse yourself, _please_ do...." He snorted and threw the cloak over his shoulder before racing down the stairs, taking them three steps at a time. He may as well hurry and get it over with. It was gonna be a long night. 

  
  


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**Next Chapter:** This time Draco gets a visitor for real, but you already knew that. :) Thanks for reading!   
  



	4. I Have No Alterior Motives, Damn You!

  
**A/N:** Of questionable quality...I wrote it in a hurry, which also accounts for the reduced length. But it's not the size that matters, right? Well, either way I'm screwed. Thanks to the Dee and her Maud for some good old fashioned helping.   


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**It's Karma, Baby!**

_by Sophie B._

  
  


**Chapter 4: I Have No Alterior Motives, Damn You!**

  


"Well here's the cloak. Let's get this over with," said Ron. 

He'd got downstairs and been thoroughly chastised by Hermione for dawdling just as he'd predicted, and now, his patience was wearing thin. 

And it was getting late too. With barely another word, they threw the cloak around themselves and stumbled out the door. 

They quickly arrived in the infirmary corridor without incident, except for the two times they nearly tripped over each other. The breadth of the airy silver fabric was barely large enough for the three of them, and Ron had to hunch to accomidate the other two under the cloak. 

"How are we supposed to get in?" Ron whispered to Harry. 

"I called Dobby after dinner and told him to open it for us. It should be unlocked by now." 

Ron nodded, and they moved forward once more towards the double infirmary doors. 

"Oof!" Ron heard, and the next moment a woosh of cool wind grazed the back of his neck. Looking over his shoulder, he came to a dead stop. 

"Harry? Hermione?" he said. 

His gaze moved down to the stone floor from where the noise was coming. His two best friends were sprawled out on the ground, glaring at each other. Ron sighed, one would think they'd be experts at this at least by now. They'd been doing it for the past seven years. 

"Merlin! Watch where you're going, Harry," said Hermione, standing and dusting herself off. 

Harry followed her lead and looked around. "Ron? Where are you?" 

Oh yes, the cloak; he was still underneath the thing. "I'm right--" 

"Ah-HA! I've got you! I knew you were no good, Potter! You're going to get it now!" 

All three students froze. Ron turned to find Argus Filch, the school's Caretaker, bearing down on him not five meters away. The man wore a look of utter triumph on his twisted old face. 

Ron jumped out of the way and backed himself against the wall before Filch could collide with him. 

The old man moved in on Harry and Hermione, sneering unpleasantly. 

Ron opened his mouth to cause a dredful distraction but paused as Harry put up a halting hand and mouthed the word 'quiet' to the wall slightly to Ron's left. 

Good Old Harry. Always thinking of others. That and he probably didn't want to get his cloak confiscated. Ron sighed as he watched the drama unfold. 

"Well. The Head Boy and Head Girl, out after hours. And together! I'm sure Professor Snape will just love hearing about this." 

All three students frowned. Ron watched miserably as Filch marched his catch towards the dungeons. 

Well. That certainly went well. Ron might have preferred to go with them. Not that he wanted detention, but now he was stuck in the dark all by his lonesome. Ah...and...what was the password to Gryffindor Tower again? A fine time to have a Neville moment. Hermione and Harry would both know. 

_So, now what?_ he wondered. Should he go back and wait by the portrait, or head down to the dungeons to see what horrible things Snape was going to have his poor friends do? The portrait; the dungeons were gross at night, the cool night air dewing up the flagstone, and there were sure to be spiders. He was about to head back down the hall when a soft creak caught his attention. He stopped and turned back around. Looked like Dobby had done his job. He walked to the infirmary doors that had blown open a crack due to a castle draft. 

Should he bother? Well, he had come all this way, might as well see what Malfoy'd done to himself. And anyhow, Hermione would surely expect him to complete the mission and report to her after she got back to the Tower. Besides, the doors had gone to the trouble of inviting him in, as it were -- it was almost like fate. Not that he believed in any of that Divination nonsense. Ron sighed and cautiously crept inside. 

  


*******

  


Draco woke to a clammer. The noise sounded as if it were coming from just outside the infirmary. He could make out distinct voices. He sat up in bed and peered around the room partially flooded with moonlight on one side, the side opposite to him. It made for an eerie sort of tapestry, two dimensional beds, lined in a row, shelves of medicines, cast bold against the white washed walls, the windows cut tall and narrow, the sills empty and wanting of embelishment. The colors that the night cast everything in turned the world into something unreal, so striking as to hurt the eyes, so lifeless as to bring one's breath to a halt. 

Draco shivered. The noise had quieted and then silenced all together, a fading auratory spector of the sort that might haunt his dreams. 

"Is someone there?" He asked, steeling his voice, calming his nerves with a quick toss of his head. 

The corridor returned only silence. 

"I know you're there, whoever you are," said Draco and added with a slight tremble, "er...whatever you are." One could never be too sure in a place such as Hogwarts. 

A door creaked slightly bringing Draco to new attention. He focused his gaze on the opposite end of the infirmary, the entrance lit in moonlight. The slight rustle of the large rubber tree plant next to the door signalled the presence of some clandestine entity in the room. 

Entity my arse, thought Draco. Whatever it was, it was invisible, and in this group of Hogwarts students, if something was invisible, that something was most assuredly Harry Potter. "Damned cloak," Draco said to himself quietly with no small amount of envy. 

What was Potter doing here, invading his privacy anyhow. The speccy idiot hadn't the right! Draco was trying to recover from the brink of death and poncy little Potter was prancing around _his_ infirmary in that blasted cloak? Unacceptable. 

"I know you're there Potter. And you're going to get it when I call Madame Pomfrey over--" 

Draco paused as a disembodied head popped into view with a rustle of fabric and a grated 'damn!' 

"Hullo, Malfoy," said Ron. "You look awful, suffering much?" 

Draco glared. "Oh, it's you. Where's Potter?" 

"Harry is not here at the moment, but I've come as his representative. We were just wondering where you'd got to." Ron smiled a sarcastic smile. "You're well being is of such concern to us." 

"Fuck off, Weasley," said Draco. "I'm in no mood for your ever so witty rabble...fuck off before I call Madame Pomfrey on you." 

"What? You were going to anyway for Harry , why the hell not me?" said Ron. He sounded a bit insulted. As he rightly _should_ be... 

"_You_'re not worth the trouble. Now piss off Poor Boy." 

"Well!" said Ron. "If you're gonna be that way, then maybe I'll just stick around a bit longer." 

Draco groaned. "What is it exactly that you want, Weasley? Why are you here?" 

"Just came by to visit a sick friend," said Ron. He grinned infuriatingly. 

"Weasley...." 

Ron sighed. "Like I said before, I'm here to see what you're up to. There have been rumors." 

"Rumors," said Draco. "Like what?" 

"Just your average 'Malfoy is planning something evil' gossip. Say, you aren't planning anything evil are you, Malfoy?" 

"Huh. As if I'd tell you." Draco glared at the other boy. 

Ron laughed. "Not that it matters. I doubt you could pull anything stuck here in the infirmary. So, what's wrong with you, Malfoy? Are you dying?" 

Draco was slightly offended by the hopeful tone of Ron's voice. "No, I'm not dying, you ginger twat. So sorry to disappoint you." 

"That's all right. As long as you're ill, I'm satisfied." 

Draco growled under his breath. The situation was quickly growing unbearable by his standards. 

Ron continued with hardly a thought. "So what is it that you've got? The flu? Plague? Gonnorhea? They're giving good odds for that one back at the Tower." 

"Shut up, Weasley. For your information, I have a simple case of Chicken Pox." 

"What in Merlin's name is that?" said Ron, sniggering. 

Irritating. The redhead was just so damn irritating. "Well if you don't know already, then I'm certainly not about to tell you," said Draco primly. 

"Pfft...I don't need you to tell me. I mean it kind of makes sense. I always _knew_ you were chicken, Malfoy," said Ron. 

Oh, someone had better wipe that shit-eating grin off that bastard's face. Otherwise things would get very ugly very soon, Draco decided, holding tight to the last ties of self-restraint holding him to the bed. If Weasley knew what was good for him, he would leave. Now. 

But of course, Draco knew very well that Weasley was daft and had no idea what was good for him. He sighed. 

"You're an idiot, Weasley, if you actually thought that was funny. And _what_ are you still doing here?! I need to get my rest. Fuck off." 

Ron sniggered. "Your beauty sleep?" he asked, striding confidently to Draco's side of the infirmary, where the blond's bed was located amongst the shadows. 

"Yes!" said Draco. He threw the sheets off of him and swung his legs over the side of the bed, gritting his teeth and glaring with murderous intent at Ron who had now unwisely moved within pouncing range of the Slytherin. 

As Draco prepared to attack, Ron's smile faded. He squinted his eyes at Draco and moved closer, causing the irate boy to take pause. 

"Whoa, Malfoy, what happened to your face? You really _are_ sick, aren't you," said Ron after a moment more of blatant staring at Draco's spotty face. It was hardly surprising that it should hold Ron's attention so. The young Malfoy had aquired quite a collection of boils by now, marring his pale and perfect skin. 

Draco snorted in disbelief. "What?! Of course I'm sick! What, did you think that I was faking? That I actually _like_ spending my time in the infirmary?! Oh yes, the beds are so comfortable here, like a bloody five star hotel! The decor is just _so_ lovely! And how could I pass up a chance to wear these oh so fashionable bath robes and be force fed fever relieving potion by the goblet full!" 

"Oi, calm down Malfoy," said Ron. "I didn't mean anything by it! You don't have to go mental!" 

Draco gasped for breath, his face flushed with the red colouring of one who's mind had exploded into a billion furious bits. 

"Are you done?" he grated through clenched teeth. 

"I was done the moment I laid eyes on your pointy face, git," said Ron, gaining some of his own temperment back as he got over the shock of Draco's little outburst. "Though, you know, considering your history, I wouldn't put it past you to fake an illness. Stupid, lying arse that you are." 

Draco closed his eyes. _I'm too tired for this,_ he thought. _What is Weasley's problem? He can't really be that daft can he?_

Suddenly Draco's eyes snapped open and he looked to Ron, an insane glint lighting his gaze. 

Should he? No, he couldn't! Could he? Well _that_ would surely knock Weasley on his arse. And he was a Malfoy; he could do whatever he wanted, whenever he pleased. He hadn't ever done it before after all, not with a boy; he'd thought about it plenty, to be sure...but to actually.... 

And Weasley wasn't at all bad looking. Stupid yes, but stupid looked fairly good on him...suited him just fine. Nope, not at all unattractive. _Oh, this is going to be good_, thought Draco, his mischievous, menacing side rejoicing at his cleverness. And he even had an legitimate excuse if the Weasel went blabbing to anyone. He was a Slytherin after all and everyone knew that Slytherins let nothing stand in the way of a good prank or some nicely displaced vengence. 

Draco's silence and his intent stare seemed to make Ron nervous. The redhead shifted his weight on his feet. "Er, Malfoy, what are you looking at?" 

"Why, you, Weasley. I thought that was fairly obvious," said Draco. 

"I mean _why_ are you looking at me like that. Stop it." 

Draco smiled wickedly to himself. _Poor unsuspecting Gryffindor. So trusting, so careless._

Ron frowed when Draco did not stop looking at him 'like that'. He made a disconcerted noise before moving to back away. 

Before he could step away, however, Draco leaned towards him, reached out a hand, grabbed Ron by the back of his neck, and yanked him forward, all in one swift motion. Knocked off his feet and pulled onto the bed, the redhead veritibly fell on Draco. Or rather, Draco's lips. 

Ron's eyes went wide as Draco kissed him hard on the mouth, the blond's hand still gripping tightly the back of Ron's neck to hold him in place. 

Ron braced his arms against the bed on either side of Draco, keeping the boy from pulling him down fully on top of him on the bed. Though there wasn't much else he could do, with Malfoy all wrapped around him like he was, his arm encircling Ron's waist, his other arm around Ron's neck, his leg hooked over Ron's thigh. It was a messy awkward position to be in, especially from Draco's side, and Ron took advantage of that fact as he struggled to free himself. 

"Mmmm Mmph Mmmbb Mmmuph!" said Ron, as he managed to disentangle his lower half from the blond and attempted to regain control of the situation. 

But as Malfoy knew, Ron never had control of the situation to begin with, and so Draco continued the sloppy kiss, pressing on unrelentingly. 

Ron gave up, rolling his eyes and sighing as well as he could with Draco's tongue in his mouth. His eyes finally fell shut, and letting his own tongue glide over the ridges of Draco's bottom teeth and all over Draco's busy mouth, he started to kiss back just as Draco began to pull away. 

With a loud, wet smack, the two parted, Malfoy somehow maneuvering them so that Ron fell to floor as he freed himself of the other boy's embrace. 

Ron landed hard on his arse with a breathless 'oomph!' and looked up, glaring at Draco. 

The blond looked down at Ron from his position on the bed, perched on his haunches. A wide smile spread across his face, his eyes still wide with malicious passion and his clever tongue swiping in a most satisfied manner over his moist lips. 

"All right there, Weasel?" he said ever so innocently. He stuck out a hand to Ron, still wearing that huge criminal grin. 

Ron stared at the offered appendage a moment. His eyes flashed with anger and he hurried clumsily to his feet, getting a good two meters from that atrociously insulting hand and its owner before turning around again. He stood panting and glaring. 

Draco met his irate gaze with a look of sweet indifference. "You don't look so good. Something the matter, lover?" 

Ron's eyes went wide and he squared his shoulders in indignance, straightening his posture to the full benefit of his nearly six foot frame. He made a show of wiping off his mouth on his sleeve and looking very scandalized. 

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, Malfoy? You sick freak! Are you mad?! You disgusting, poncey flit!" 

Draco snorted, phased none by Ron's outburst. "Huh. You're one to talk Weasley." He crossed his arms over his chest and sat back casually on the edge of the infirmary bed. 

Ron's eyes went wide once more. "Shut up!" he said. "I'm not! What the fuck are you trying to pull, Malfoy?! You're barking...." 

Draco sighed. He shrugged his shoulders dramatically and fell back on the bed. "Nothing, Weasley. Nothing at all. Well, thanks for visiting. A bit tired now. I'll see you tomorrow," he said, proceeding to snuggle back under the covers. 

"Yeah right, you prick!" said Ron. He started to back towards the door. "Are you crazy? I'm not coming back tomorrow so you can attack me again! You bleeding homo!" 

Draco turned over to lie on his stomach, turning his head on the pillow to allow him a nice view of the retreating redhead. He smiled and waved. 

Ron growled. "I hope you rot!" He turned around and stormed out of the infirmary, sparing the Slytherin not a single glance more. 

Draco chuckled as silence settled back into the once more empty infirmary. That had to be the most fun he'd had in ages. The week was definitely looking up. Satisfied and tired, he curled up under the covers and fell quickly into peaceful slumber. 

  
  


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**Next Chapter:** I think you all know what's gonna happen next. Draco is happy until Ron gets a bit of his own back. Thanks for reading!   
  



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